


On That Note

by theinkwell33



Series: The Cryptid Chronicles [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Ducks, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Miracles, Musical Theater Cryptids, POV Outsider, Platonic Relationships, romantic subtext
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:15:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21602059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theinkwell33/pseuds/theinkwell33
Summary: In which Basil, who has sold theater tickets in London for many years, notes with increasing distress that a certain Mr. Fell has never stayed to the end of a performance of The Sound of Music. And his friend (or perhaps enemy?) Mr. Crowley, seems to be of no help whatsoever in this matter.Or rather, Aziraphale has a long history with evading The Sound of Music, and someone decides it's about time he saw the whole thing.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The Cryptid Chronicles [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1509494
Comments: 146
Kudos: 800





	1. September 1961 - The Palace Theater, London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the novel, Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch:  
> \---  
> "Listen," said Crowley urgently, "the point is that when the bird has worn the mountain down to nothing, right, then-"  
> Aziraphale opened his mouth. Crowley just knew he was going to make some point about the relative hardness of birds' beaks and granite mountains, and plunged on quickly.  
> "-then you still won't have finished watching The Sound of Music."  
> Aziraphale froze.  
> "And you'll enjoy it," Crowley said relentlessly. "You really will."  
> \---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got a lot longer than I originally planned. I'll stagger posting the chapters a little, but the whole thing is already written. It is a little more bittersweet than the others, but it ends on a pretty good...note.
> 
> This isn't the last music pun I'll sneak in, and I make no apologies for that. Hope you enjoy!

Basil Ranjha is twenty years old and desperate for any job he can find. His family is relatively new to London, and they have pinned many hopes on him finding employment. He doesn’t want to let them down.

He gets an interview at a tiny, dimly lit theater in Soho. It’s clear this one has been shunted away from the bustling popularity of the rest of Theatreland. This is either due to budget constraints or the fact that it has no outward signs announcing it is, in fact, a theater. Within the first two days he is there, there is a horrible accident with a heavy overhead light on the stage, and the theater closes for good. Feeling the frustrating sense of being back exactly where he started, Basil tries again. He dons his best (only) suit, not caring if he is overdressed, and resolves to come off as far less desperate than he is. The only difference is that this time, he has the added bonus of experience at another theater on his albeit extremely short resume. This seems to grease the wheels in his job search ever so slightly, because he never said how _long_ he worked at that theater, and somehow, nobody ever asked.

Eventually, through some rather unprecedented and bewildering good luck, Basil secures an interview with someone at the Palace Theater, simply because of his suit. They tell him he has the look of a distinguished gentleman, to which Basil has to bite his tongue to keep from responding, _who, me?_ He has a vague inkling that he should be nervous for this interview. But London is such a distracting, overwhelming place that everything about the city seems ridiculously important and intimidating, so this interview is just another step on that stressful path to finding a homeostasis of some kind.

Years from now, Basil will look back at that fateful interview and never be sure how on earth he got a job at that place. For a theater like that, with all that prestige and grandiose architecture, and the fact that it was about to play host to _The Sound of Music_ for the first time ever? It would’ve taken a miracle to get hired.

But as he is about to find out, miracles around here are actually rather common.

* * *

A few weeks into his job at the Palace Theater, _The Sound of Music_ premieres. The demand for tickets is extraordinary, and Basil works so many hours that his family begins to grow concerned.

“It’s all right,” he reassures them after he arrives home at half past three in the morning. “I like the work. I like the theater, and it makes good money.”

All these things are true. Basil never had much exposure to theater or stage productions as a child, but he’s finding rather quickly that he rather enjoys the atmosphere. Sometimes, once the booth closes and the shows start, he and the other attendants can peek in through the cracks in the doors to listen and perhaps catch a glimpse of a resplendent costume. Basil has yet to witness a full production, but he thinks with the sheer amount of performances he’s sold tickets to, he’ll eventually learn all the words to “Do-Re-Mi” simply through eavesdropping.

He’s finally starting to get into a rhythm when, one night in September, something so odd happens to him that it redefines his entire life. 

While that sounds like an understatement, it is most assuredly not.

Basil has seen many extraordinary things while on the job. He’s seen people show up to the theater in costumes, or attempt to smuggle in a puppy, or present him with fraudulent tickets in the hopes he’ll let them in.

But he’s never seen anything like _this._

A tall, skinny man in sunglasses approaches the Will Call stand. He oozes confidence and intimidation and sin, and Basil is put immediately on high alert. Nobody wears sunglasses at night unless they’re up to no good.

But the man simply says, “Hi, two for Sound of Music. Under Crowley.”

Basil nods silently, heart pounding with dread, and flicks through the cards under “C”. He scans for “Crowley” but nothing comes up.

“Sorry, sir,” he says, “there’s nothing under that name.”

“Errr,” the man hums, almost nervously. “Try under Fell.”

He flips through the cards again, but comes up empty for “F”.

“No luck, sir, are you certain your tickets are for tonight?”

“Yeah, nnghk, hang on.” He motions to somebody Basil can’t see and waves them over. “Oi! Angel!”

A shorter, good-natured man with cherubic white curls approaches the window. “Excuse me,” he says, “is there a problem?”

“Angel, the tickets for tonight, are they in your name or mine?” There’s a strange undercurrent to the tall man’s tone, as if he’s wrapping a secret question into his words. His friend seems to understand completely, and gives a benevolent nod.

“Ah, I believe they should be under mine.” The curly haired man turns his frighteningly soft blue eyes onto Basil. “Would you mind looking again under ‘Fell’, dear boy? I’m quite certain they should be there.”

Basil blinks. Some part of his mind thinks, _I know for a fact there’s no Fell on that list. I saw it with my own two eyes._

But one thing they taught him early on in his training for the booth is that he must always check a second time. Just in case. So he ticks through the “F” names, and...suddenly a Fell is present, with two tickets under the name. Ordinarily, he would assume it was just an error on his own part, but Basil is extremely sure they were not there before. He says none of this out loud, but he suspects some kind of magic trick has just taken place in which he has been duped.

Basil does not like being duped.

He slides the tickets through the opening under the glass window, and Mr. Fell takes them with a grateful smile. “I greatly appreciate it, dear fellow,” he says to Basil. “Have a lovely evening.”

“Shaddup, angel, you’re doing it again. Don’t make him uncomfortable,” the other man huffs, and then they are gone.

The night progresses rather normally, but Basil can’t get the two men out of his head. Something about that whole exchange bothers him, and the whole time he’s closing up the ticket window, he runs his mind over it the way one would experimentally touch the blade of a knife to gauge its sharpness. He isn’t crazy. Those tickets came from thin air.

It’s barely five minutes away from intermission when Basil hears the doors to the mezzanine burst open. “Climb Ev’ry Mountain” is still in full force, and the music sweeps into the lobby like a tidal wave before the doors shut and muffle the song again.

“-don’t know what came over me,” says a trembling voice. Basil peeks around the doorway to see none other than Mr. Fell striding up the aisle, dabbing at his brow with a tartan handkerchief. He is being followed by an elderly usher who can’t keep up with his pace.

“Sir, you can still return after intermission, if you’d like,” the usher pants.

“No, thank you, I’ve had quite enough,” snaps Mr. Fell. He’s shaking all over, and is so pale that Basil for a moment is concerned he’s going to pass out. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to snap. I-I’m just not accustomed to being in such large crowds. I got a bit overwhelmed. Nothing to do with the story, I assure you, you all did a marvelous job, but I really must be going.”

Mr. Fell beelines for the exit, and disappears through the glossy front doors. Basil watches him fumble for a moment, as if for car keys, but instead, he looks up at the sky, snaps his fingers, and vanishes. Nobody else seems to notice. But Basil does. He just saw a man disappear into thin air. He saw the same man fabricate tickets with magic. He saw the same man leave _The Sound of Music_ early. And he’ll never, ever forget it.

There’s a lull, for about a minute, in which the usher regains his breath and Basil locks the door to the ticket booth, preparing to go on his break.

And then the door to the theater opens again and the tall man, Mr. Crowley, emerges. He’s _still wearing the sunglasses_ , and marches over to Basil with a look that might have been threatening, or might have been - dare he say - wounded. His lips are turned down and there’s a small crinkle between his eyebrows.

“Did my, er, friend come through here? I looked over and he was just...gone.”

Basil nodded, eyes wide. “He said he got overwhelmed, and walked right out the door. Disappeared.”

“Disappeared where?” Mr. Crowley demands.

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

“I really would.”

“He just...vanished. Into thin air. Like magic.”

“Oh,” sighs Mr. Crowley. “Right. He does that sometimes.”

“What?” Basil hisses.

“Nmmmgkn, never mind. Thch. It’s fine. Guess I’ll stick around and enjoy the show anyway. Don’t want the tickets to go to waste.”

“Are you...are you sure you don’t want to try and find him?”

“Yes, very,” Mr. Crowley says testily. “‘S not like we do everything together. ‘M not his keeper.”

“Oh. I thought you were friends.”

“Nope,” the man announces, popping the “p”. “Was just his lift home.” With finality, he then slithers over to the bar to get a drink and bide his time until he can re-enter the theater after intermission.

Basil is in a trance the rest of the night. He cannot understand what has happened, and while he knows there are extraordinary people in the world and he has every right to expect some oddness out of life, he’s got this weird suspicion that the men he met tonight aren’t _people_ at all.

He wonders if Mr. Fell will return to see what he missed the first go around. But he waits in vain.

It turns out, Basil won't see them for a long time. Years, in fact. But eventually, he will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference, here's about where Aziraphale got to in the show before leaving in a panic:  
> Maria has just fled from the von Trapp house after being told by one of the children that she seems to be in love with the Captain. When she returns to the abbey, she says she is ready to take her vows, even though it is obvious to the Mother Abbess that Maria is merely avoiding her feelings for the Captain. The Mother Abbess sings Climb Ev'ry Mountain to tell Maria to seek out the life she is called to live instead.
> 
> That, coupled with the fact that in the TV show canon, the last time Aziraphale and Crowley were together before this was 1941...yeah. I always wondered what happened between then and 1967, so my brain supplied this headcanon that the Sound of Music probably had something to do with it.


	2. October 1981 - The Apollo Victoria Theater, London

Twenty years pass. Basil is forty. After two promotions, a series of ill-fated dates (after which he happily gave up the whole endeavor entirely), and the majority of his siblings moving to Sussex, he ends up very much in a similar position to where he started in 1961. He is working for a theater in London again, and providing for his family. Although, these days, he is sending the money along to the nieces and nephews he is now uncle to. He owns more than one suit now, at least. But, as much as things have changed in his quest into adulthood, many things have not. London still bustles and glitters and demands to be noticed, and Basil has a little glimpse into the theater scene.

His job at the Apollo Victoria Theater is what some might call posh. He calls long-time ticket holders to offer them incentives, hosts benefits to encourage wealthy patrons to donate to the arts, and monitors the upstart new-hires in the ticket booth at will call. He marvels at how strange it is that he was once in that exact position and is now their supervisor. They look so young to him, these twenty-somethings. They’ve got wild hairstyles and piercings and fierce eyes burning with desperation and hope. How could he have ever been like that?

Sometimes Basil misses his days at the will call stand. He certainly had fewer responsibilities back then, and it was a good job. He saw a strange slice of the population, depending on the fare being offered onstage. It was nice to see the throngs of individuality coming together for some kind of vibrant entertainment. Nowadays, Basil really only meets the rich people, and he never feels connected to them.

Perhaps the universe caught wind that this had all been on Basil’s mind, because just as _The Sound of Music_ sets up shop again at the theater, one of the will call boys quits on opening night. Basil doesn’t have time to scramble for a replacement, so he delegates his other “posh” duties to the feral-looking interns, rightly thinking they would jump at the chance to practice taking the lead.

He sits down in the will call box, takes a deep breath of the crisp autumn air coming in from the drafty glass window, and assumes the role he’d missed so much. He enjoys getting himself ready. Straightening his tie. Moving a dusty vase of long-dead carnations to the far corner of his cubicle, out of sight of the customers. Wiping down the glass front of the box. Arranging the alphabetized ticket deck for easy use.

Some tucked-away part of his brain calls forward a dusty memory, and he wonders if he’ll see the strange duo he’d met so many years before. Would the fluffy haired gentleman ever come back to finish the show he’d run out on? What about his friend? The scary one? Did they ever make amends?

Ordinarily, Basil doesn’t like to speculate on the lives of his customers. It just creates lots of stories that don’t have endings, little mysteries he’ll never be able to solve. The human brain is not designed to enjoy unanswered questions, and when set loose, it attempts to solve every problem of the universe, albeit sometimes poorly1.

> _1 _ _See phrenology, for instance._

But in this case, there is something about these two individuals that keeps Basil interested. He wants to know their story. But perhaps the universe listens too closely, because tonight he gets _far_ more than he bargained for.

He’s almost done whittling down the very long line of ticket holders when a brick wall of a man steps up and says, “Hello, we would like to gain entrance to your human frivolity...thing, please.”

Basil looks into lavender eyes and the unprofessional version of him (in his head, of course) takes a few steps back. The real him doesn’t move a muscle.

“Pardon?” he says.

“You’re forgiven,” the man says with a vague little wave. The hairs on the back of Basil’s arms stand up, and the decrepit flowers in the vase suddenly bursts into fresh, velvety blossoms. Basil stares at the flowers, wide eyed.

“Um.” He can’t help it, he’s at a loss for words.

“Oh, Gabriel, stop, you’re frightening him, if you would please, oh - ah, ex- excuse me,” stutters a voice from behind the intimidating man (creature? wizard?). “Gabriel” is shoved gently aside to reveal none other than Mr. Fell, who looks like he’s had to elbow through a stampede to get here. Other than his somewhat harried appearance, he hasn’t aged a day. It is as if twenty minutes had passed and not twenty years.

He might even be wearing the same outfit. At this point, Basil isn’t even surprised. The flowers sort of did him in.

“Hello,” says Mr. Fell. “I’m here with a few colleagues-” Basil notes he doesn’t say _friends_ \- “and the tickets should be under my name. It’s-”

“Fell, I remember you. We met the last time. Sound of Music. You were here with -”

“Nobody!” interrupts Mr. Fell, a little loudly. He seems to have noticed Gabriel is eyeing him curiously. “Just me.”

Basil raises an eyebrow. So _that’s_ how it is. “How many tickets are you picking up tonight?” he asks. He knows full well he’s in for another magic trick, and decides to bide his time and play along. Just to see what happens.

“Five, please. Under Fell.” Under his breath, Mr. Fell counts off the members of his party just to be sure. He points in turn to Gabriel and three other vaguely well dressed people with strange gold birthmarks before finally counting himself.

Basil is unsurprised to see the tickets have miraculously appeared under “F”. He hands them over, receives a kind “Thank you, dear,” in response, and the curious group of individuals is led by Mr. Fell into the theater.

Basil turns his attention to the other customers, but he can’t shake his nerves. Every time he looks at the restored flowers in the vase beside him, his hands start trembling again. He’s grateful when he reaches the last customer in line, because he’s barely holding it together and isn’t sure how much longer he’ll last.

That is, he’s relieved _until_ he realizes that the last person at his window is none other than Mr. Crowley.

Basil immediately breaks into a cold sweat, and, to his horror, he loses all semblance of professional decorum. “Oh, not you _too_ ,” he groans, slumping forward. “Your friend’s already inside, just go.”

Mr. Crowley stares at him through the same pair of ridiculous sunglasses even though it’s night. “What?”

“Your friend. The fluffy one in old fashioned clothes. Mr. Fell.”

“He’s...he’s here? Tonight?”

“You mean you didn’t come together?”

“No, we’re not here _together_ ,” Mr. Crowley practically spits, though he sounds more flustered than actually angry.. “Haven’t seen him since ‘67.”

Basil has literally no idea what to say to this. He goes with, “Oh.”

“Anyway,” the man waves the conversation away. “Ticket’s under Crowley, if you wouldn’t mind. Do you always chat this much with theater patrons, or...?”

“No,” Basil blushes, handing over the ticket. “Sorry, it’s just...you two tend to stick in the memory. Weird things happened the last time I saw you. Not easy to put out of the mind.”

Mr. Crowley takes his stub and says in a low voice, “Would you prefer to forget?” Somehow, this seems more like a threat than a question.

“No!” Basil says quickly. He has the distinct feeling he is very, very much in over his head here.

“If you change your mind-” Crowley begins, then inspects his seat number. “Actually, am I seated next to him? Do you know?”

The new vulnerability in his voice is such a shift that Basil physically grips his armrest for support. “Um, I doubt it. He’s here with a bunch of other people. Colleagues.”

Mr. Crowley reels back like a provoked cobra. “Oh. Oh no.”

“Do you know them? They seemed a little…” He trails off, noticing that the man is muttering things under his breath.

“I’m gonna have to rescue him again. They’re gonna watch the show and get _ideas_ and it’ll be _how do we solve a problem like Aziraphale_ all over again, and that’s not even mentioning all the stuff in Act Two...” 

“Sir, they’re about to start, you’d better go in or you’ll miss the show.”

Mr. Crowley tilts his head back in what might be the most dramatic eye-roll possible. “Fine,” he says, but Basil suspects this isn’t to him. Without a word, the man stalks into the theater.

Basil closes up the ticket booth, and is only just starting to relax as they ring the bells for last call before they close the doors. He walks out into the nearly empty lobby only to run smack into Mr. Crowley, who has chosen that moment to dart back out of the theater just as the overture for Act One starts up. They collide and topple, and Basil is lying on the green carpet before he can remember falling. They both scramble to their feet, nursing wounds. Mr. Crowley’s sunglasses have been knocked a bit askew, and before he rights them, Basil catches a glimpse of an inhuman yellow eye with a slit pupil. 

He chalks it up to a trick of the light, because he must.

“What are you doing, the show’s starting, you’ll miss it!” Basil says, clutching his throbbing arm. He’s feeling rather incredulous and brave, spurred on by the fact that he’s in quite a bit of pain. It takes all he has not to yell at this strange man to get out of the theater for good. Does he have that authority? He doesn’t know. He wants it.

“I’m not going back in there, he’s with a bunch of angels. Gotta get him out of here…” Mr. Crowley says, thinking aloud. Basil just stares at him, his mind still caught on _angels_ like a fish hooked on a line.

“Right, right, okay,” Mr. Crowley says, sounding more confident with each word, and his focus is drawn back to their conversation. “You,” he pokes a finger at Basil’s grey lapel. “‘S your name?”

“Basil.”

“Basil, the real show’s going to start out here in half an hour. Believe me, you won’t want to miss it. When my friend comes into the lobby, which he will, give him this.”

Mr. Crowley presses a folded piece of paper into Basil’s hand, then stalks out of the theater and down the steps onto the London street. Basil watches him go, a pool of dread forming in his stomach. He dares not read the note. He is not curious. He is terrified.

So terrified, in fact, that those thirty minutes of peace fly by too quickly. He’s still pacing in the same spot, full of nerves, when it happens.

And by _it_ , Basil means that the entire lobby, _and the entire theater_ , suddenly becomes swarmed with ducks.

Within moments, the audience comes sprinting into the lobby with screams and shouts, and the ducks chase them out through the theater doors with gleeful squawks. But the ducks that are already in the lobby are equally vicious, and soon all the flapping and honking drives most people all the way out onto the street. 

It is sheer and total chaos. And Basil, who is surrounded by four ducks nipping at his heels with their sharp beaks, can only think _I am so fired_ before he spots Mr. Fell bumbling his way through the lobby. Behind him, his colleagues are fending off ducks from above and below, so they are too distracted to see where he is going. Fearing what might happen if he doesn’t follow Mr. Crowley’s instructions, Basil wades through feathers and panicking patrons over to Mr. Fell.

“This is from your friend. The mean one with the red hair and sunglasses,” is all he says, and he presses the note into the man’s hand. “He said he was helping you escape.”

Mr. Fell regards him with an incandescently happy expression, engulfs him in a quick but rather nice hug, then straightens his outrageous brown waistcoat. “Oh, thank you, my boy, this is spectacular.”

Basil is about to argue that no, this is _not_ spectacular, when a duck bites down sharply on his left ankle and he yelps. Once he regains his faculties, Basil realizes Mr. Fell’s colleagues have joined the conversation, covered in feathers and looking wrathful.

“It’s time for me to leave,” Mr. Fell says to them, sounding amazingly contrite given the opposite reaction he just bestowed on Basil. “I’ve got wiles to thwart, as you can see. Got to track down who we all know is responsible for this...situation.”

“Do whatever you have to. This is exactly why we have you stationed on Earth,” says Gabriel.

“Gladly,” Mr. Fell says, his blue eyes glinting like steely flames.

His colleagues leave with harried huffs of disgust and outrage. And, after winking at Basil, Mr. Fell sprints for the exit. A duck has hitched a temporary ride on his shoulders with its wings outspread, cawing madly.

Perhaps Basil is a bit overstimulated, but in that moment, silhouetted with the wings, Mr. Fell does look like an angel.

He’ll replay the memories from tonight for the rest of his life. But for the time being, there are ducks to be reasoned with, if such a thing is possible.

* * *

Basil is too busy fending off the birds (and getting sacked) to see what happens to Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley.

He misses the part where a magnificent black Bentley pulls up to the curb outside the Apollo Victoria and Mr. Fell gets in after a moment's hesitation at the door handle.

He misses the part where Mr. Fell turns to Mr. Crowley, who is driving, and sighs, “Ducks, Crowley. _Really_?”

“They owed me a favor, Aziraphale. Relax. We’ve been feeding them for generations. Time they gave back a little. In half an hour they’ll disappear, you take credit for a job well done, and I report successful mayhem to head office. No harm, no...fowl.”

"Just...drive at a normal speed, please."

Aziraphale is grateful. He doesn’t have to say it though. Crowley knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be up Thursday or Friday!


	3. December 2006 - The London Palladium, London

The invitation arrives in the Thursday afternoon post.

Basil brings it into his little third-floor flat and shows it to his tortoise, Timothy, before putting on the kettle. Not many people these days would send him an invitation. He’s far past the point in his life where everyone got married, and even his nieces and nephews have already done so. That is, except for Ana, who, like Basil himself, never really felt the need.

"So it can’t be a wedding invitation," he reasons to Timothy. But there are no distinguishing markings announcing where it could be from, just his own name and address stamped in golden letters across the front of the rich white paper envelope.

He makes himself a cup of white tea and sets it to steep, then runs his hands along the paper. It feels buttery and expensive. Who could possibly have sent this? _Well_ , he thinks, _might as well find out for sure_ , and so he tears open the envelope.

The folded card inside is printed on the same kind of paper; but the text is handwritten this time, in a fussy copperplate script in black ink. Basil holds it up to read it properly, and something that looks like a ticket falls back to the counter from where it was tucked inside the card.

After Basil reads the note and makes an incredulous wheeze, he realizes exactly what the ticket is for. Sure enough, it reads _The Sound of Music_ , and the date says tonight. Mezzanine, center section, party of three. Because of course.

“I wondered when I’d be seeing them again,” Basil laughs to himself as he removes the tea leaves from his cup and takes an experimental first sip. “Time to get the old suit out again, I suppose.”

He thought he'd hung up his suits for good at this point, now favoring soft green jumpers and denim. In the years following the duck debacle, Basil had flitted between odd jobs. He once spent two weeks attempting to work in the men’s department at Marks and Spencer, and hated it so much that he walked in one day, stood contemplatively in front of the sliding doors, then walked right back out.

He spent a few years working as a deliveryman, then minding the counter of an old tea shop in Soho, and finally settled into a more corporate life working ticket sales for stadium events. Luckily, some smart investing back in the nineties had ensured he’d be able to keep living in London as prices went up, but he’d still needed a steady income, and working at HareTicket Inc. became his best option. And, even though he could feasibly retire now, he likes having something to do during the day. Otherwise, he'd just sit at home and talk to his tortoise, which would be fine for a while, but would not be a stimulating full-time activity in the long run.

Most of his job is done over the phone or computer, so Basil is set up with nice cubicle and earpiece, and is now used to the routine. It was rather like his days working Will Call, but somewhat more impersonal, and infinitely more ordinary than his previous experiences had been. There are no evil ducks in his office (thank goodness, he still hates the things), no strange characters, and no weird conversations. The most interesting experience he's had at HareTicket so far was this spring, when Jacob Perlmutter illegally brought a hamster to work to keep in his cubicle. It promptly escaped and they still haven't found it.

But Basil hasn’t gotten soft. He keeps a vase of carnations on his desk at work, where he’ll see them every day. They are the same ones, as a matter of fact, that Gabriel restored, and they still look as fresh as if they’d been picked yesterday. It’s hard to ignore a miracle like that when it’s right in front of you for twenty five years, and so Basil has never let himself slip back into thinking the world is a mundane place. It is decidedly _not_.

It seems vigilance was the right move, because the ticket to the show tonight is yet more proof. Basil knows the show has been sold out for weeks. He helped sell some of the tickets. He _knows_ it would take a miracle to get one at all at this point, let alone this kind of seat. Even if money was no option. The two “cryptids”, as he thinks the kids these days would call Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley, have magicked him a seat somehow. Just like old times.

* * *

Basil arrives in the lobby of the theater early, and he can't help but marvel at the plush red carpet and gold fixtures. This is one of the few theaters he’s never set foot in before. He sees the cryptids in the far corner by the bar, where they’ve commandeered a few chairs and a glass-covered coffee table. They wave him over, and he sits down beside Mr. Fell, opposite Mr. Crowley, who is still wearing the sunglasses.

Neither of them has aged a single day, but he isn’t surprised. Basil merely stares at the way Mr. Crowley lounges on his chair, like he’s got no spine, or any bones at all. He’s just a squiggly combination of limbs, and it makes Basil’s back ache just thinking about it. 

Mr. Fell sits primly on his own chair, wearing the exact same waistcoat he’d worn in the eighties, now paired with a truly heinous tartan bow tie. “I see you got my note,” he beams. It’s like someone has installed a flashlight into his smile, it’s nearly blinding. “Hello, Basil.”

“Hello. Um, thank you. For the ticket.”

“I hope you won’t mind us intruding on one more of your evenings, dear boy. We just...we figured we had a lot of apologizing-”

“Speak for yourself,” interrupts Mr. Crowley grandly, straightening the red collar of his black jacket. “I don’t apologize.”

“ _-explaining_ ,” Mr. Fell corrects, “to do, and we wanted to say thank you. For playing along and not trying to start some sort of witch-hunt for us after you saw us do some pretty...odd things at your expense.”

“Like the ducks,” Basil adds helpfully. He likes being sixty five, he can be sharp and just a tiny bit passive aggressive now, it’s nice.

“Yes." He looks contrite, at least. “We’re sorry about the ducks.”

Mr. Crowley jumps in again, straightening his posture indignantly. “‘Scuse me, but I’m not sorry at all. It did exactly what it needed to.”

“You got me fired,” Basil points out. "Thank you for that, by the way."

“But you rescued an angel, that counts for something. Tell him, Aziraphale. Go on.”

Basil blinks. “I _was_ going to ask about that. An angel?”

“Yes, well, yes. What Crowley means,” Mr. Fell - _Aziraphale_ \- says with a placating hand gesture, “is that you got me out of a tight spot with my, ah, managers, who were quite keen on using it as a model for the...erm, heavenly aesthetic. The Sound of Music is hard for me to watch, I’ve never seen the whole thing, and on top of that, Gabriel was being-”

“Wait a moment. You mean those were angels too? The golden, shiny people. You're _actually_ angels. I can’t handle that information. I’m sixty five. You could kill me with something like that.”

“Yeah?” says Crowley with a devilish grin. “Just wait until we tell you what _I_ am.”

“ _Crowley,_ you’re not helping.”

“Look, Basil,” drawls the slumped tangle of limbs in a black suit. “Let me make this easy for you.” He points to Aziraphale. “Angel.” He points to himself. “Demon.” He points to the theater doors, which are now open. “A thank you present. For you. We’re going to watch the whole show this time, it’ll be a whole thing. Fun. So, go, let’s, now. Yes?”

Basil blinks. There are a number of ways he could react to this information. He could scream, he could leave, he could go into denial, he could-

“Oh, all right,” he hears himself saying. He’s surprised, but it feels like the appropriate answer.

“See, angel? I told you it’d be fine, look, he’s perfectly okay. Took that like a champ.”

Aziraphale does not look convinced. “Basil, I must insist that if we make you uncomfortable you tell us, yes? The whole point of this is to do something kind for you and to lay some of our mystery to rest for you. If it gets to be too much-”

“It’s...it’s fine, really,” Basil assures him, “um. Thank you.”

They get in line to head into the theater, with Basil standing in between an angel and a demon. It’s probably the setup to some joke, but he tries not to think about it. From behind, Crowley murmurs in his ear.

“What made you say yes tonight?”

Basil turns over his shoulder to look at him. “I’ve never seen a show before. This is my only chance.”

“All those years working in the theater, and you never once saw a production?”

“No,” Basil says truthfully. “Never got the opportunity.”

“You’re in for a treat. Though, mind you, the musical numbers never really grow on you, you just have to suffer through them...but as far as first experiences go, it's okay. Don’t listen to Aziraphale. He’s just upset because he’s basically Maria von Trapp and hasn’t come to terms with it yet.”

“Hmm?” asks Aziraphale, “did you say something, Crowley?”

“No,” he and Basil say at the same time.

“To be fair,” Crowley continues in hushed tones as they walk, “I had that same experience with Benedick in Much Ado. Hated him at first. Couldn’t stand him. But now I know why, and now it’s easier to enjoy the play.”

It’s impossible to know because of the sunglasses, but Basil gets the impression Crowley is winking at him.

“Much Ado?”

Crowley's volume shifts to normal levels now as they descend into the theater. “Much Ado About Nothing. ‘S Shakespeare. You’d have liked him, back in the day. A genius underneath all the grandstanding. Very, very short, though. _To little for a great praise, and-_ ”

“I haven’t read that one,” Basil admits as a nice lady passes him a program. “Only read the tragedies in school.”

“Tell you what,” says Crowley. “It’s meant to be seen, not read. The next time they do it, you’ll get a ticket in the mail.”

“That’s...unnecessary, I-”

“It’s not, it’s education. All about knowledge, me. Wouldn’t be doing my job without proffering up all the knowledge for you humans.”

“Oh. Uh. Thank you.” Basil isn’t quite sure what to make of getting play recommendations from a demon, but as he has been doing all his life, he decides it’s best to just go with things and not think too hard about the logistics.

They reach their seats, with Basil on the far right end beside Crowley. Aziraphale is then seated between Crowley and a six year old girl wearing a fairy princess costume. The mother beside her immediately starts chatting with Aziraphale about how little Louisa refused to wear anything else and it’s really just a phase, but the angel seems perfectly charmed and fires compliments at them with the accuracy of a trained soldier.

Crowley scoffs and slumps down in his seat, blushing faintly. Basil notices but says nothing. He has no idea what their relationship might be like; he has a hard time wrapping his head around the fact they aren’t trying to kill each other. Or him. What about opposite sides? How does that even work? They’re probably older than the universe, what does that do to someone?

“I must be like a speck of dust to you,” he muses.

Crowley whips his head up and stares through those opaque lenses. “What?”

“You guys have been around since the beginning, right? So we must not matter to you. We live and die so quickly.”

“Humans are the reason Aziraphale and I are here. Without you lot, we’d be out of a job. And we’ve come to like you humans. And the world. Why would we come see musicals if that wasn’t true?”

“Fair point.”

“‘S too bad it’s got to end someday.”

Basil raises his eyebrows.

“You know. End times. Nothing lasts forever.2”

Basil stares at his wrinkled hands. He knows.

> _2 No indeed. Crowley will get his assignment in the graveyard two years from now. But you already know how that story ends. Not with a bang, not with a whimper, not even with a kraken, but with champagne, quiet piano music, and a whole stack of brand new tomorrows to look forward to. _

They’re saved from any more existential discussion by the house lights dimming. There’s a rustle of anticipation from the crowd, and then the lone sound of an oboe initiates the orchestral hum. A shiver goes up Basil’s spine, and the only word on his mind is _finally_.

Crowley waits until the house lights are completely off before he removes his sunglasses.

Not to say that Basil was right about the yellow snake eyes, but he was right. But it's not as if it really matters, he reasons. Instead, he allows his attention to be turned to the stage, which is about to get extremely interesting.

* * *

At intermission, Crowley grumpily pops his sunglasses back on, and he and Aziraphale leave their seats on the pretense of getting a drink before Act Two. Aziraphale looks a little shaken, so that’s probably a good idea. Citing a sore knee, Basil stays where he is and reads the program cover-to-cover.

When the tone sounds for people to return to their seats, Crowley comes back alone. “What happened to Aziraphale?” he asks Basil.

“What do you mean? He went to get drinks with you.”

“He did, and then he got a head start back here while I was clearing our glasses. I thought he was with you.”

“No.”

They stare at each other, and then Crowley curses. “Oh for-” he stops, then starts over. “He did it again! Ran off. Unbelievable. Hang on.” He takes the stairs three at a time back up to the exit. Basil couldn’t follow if he tried. He's not nearly that spry. He watches the demon disappear, but then the theater darkens, and, well, Basil is still here. He should stay in case they come back.

They don’t. 

It’s the last time he ever sees them. But Basil still gets the last word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter will be up on Sunday or Monday! Thanks for all your kind words, I'm glad you're enjoying the fic! <3


	4. Present Day - Aziraphale’s Bookshop, London

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Tim.
> 
> A quick warning for the sad feels on this chapter; I did warn you it would be a little bittersweet, but hopefully you still enjoy it nonetheless. Thanks for accompanying Basil on his journey!

**Epilogue**

Nearly a year after The World Almost Ended, a bequest arrives at the bookshop on a rainy May afternoon.

It is delivered in the form of a brown paper package, and yes, it is tied up with string. In a thin scrawl, the attached card reads _It’s meant to be lived, not watched, but you’ve already done the living part. Now it's time to see the whole thing_. The card is not signed. They’ll know who it’s from.

Aziraphale opens it tentatively, and when he folds back the lid, a DVD of _The Sound of Music_ stares back at him with the eyes of Julie Andrews.

"Oh, Basil," he sighs with a half laugh, before heavier emotions rise up to lap at the shore of his consciousness. Sadness, regret, melancholy, distress, acceptance. Each one is a crushing wave of salt water. He brushes moisture from his eyes and breathes deeply for a few minutes. It's time for him to mentally commit Basil to memory within the highly curated mental scrapbook of illustrious humans he’s had the pleasure of knowing in all his long years. 

You see, the occupational hazard with being an immortal being is that the beloved humans around him do, someday, die. Aziraphale has experienced loss so many times, but the excision-like pain of it has never dulled.

He calls Crowley only to find the demon has already heard the news. Apparently, he was left some bequest of his own. While Aziraphale waits for him to come over, the angel cancels his plans to attend a book auction that evening, then miracles a DVD player into existence3. 

> _3 DVD players don’t really look like old fashioned “magic lantern” projectors, but how could Aziraphale know that? It’ll do the job; his miracles always do as they’re told, even if they defy practicality. That’s what miracles are for, at the heart of it all. _

When Crowley arrives, he’s carrying a box of chocolates in one hand and a small vase of flowers in the other. He sets them down on the counter, and notices Aziraphale's questioning look.

“I already had some flowers sent to his family. These are for us,” he clarifies as he brushes raindrops from his jacket.

“What are they?” Aziraphale asks, bending down to inspect the lush blossoms.

“Edelweiss. Don’t think you got to that bit yet, it’s a reference.”

“No, I don’t think I did, can’t really recall,” Aziraphale murmurs. He goes to open a bottle of wine, one of the better bottles, then returns with two glasses. Once Crowley takes his, Aziraphale proposes a toast. “To Basil,” he announces soberly, and they drink to him.

* * *

“D'you have any books on tortoises, angel?” asks Crowley as they set up the DVD. He makes no comment on the magic lantern, but files the observation away in his mental collection of things to give Aziraphale a hard time for at a later date.

“Maybe,” he says suspiciously. "Why?"

“Well. Thanks to our friend Basil, I am now the legal guardian of a tortoise named Timothy. Need some tips.”

“My dear, surely you’re the reptile expert, can’t you figure it out?”

Crowley props his sunglasses up into his hair, indignant. “No! That’s just snakes. Don’t like tortoises, they move slow and they have, you know, legs. Timothy...ngh...just keeps looking at me. Expectant. What’m I s’posed to do? Yell at him? He's not a plant…”

“Be kind to him. Feed him. Besides. You like _me_ and _I_ have legs. And I move slow,” Aziraphale points out. “I’ve always said you go too fast-”

“No, no, no,” Crowley drowns that out as he rearranges a few of the projector cables. They’re not plugged into anything, he just needs something to do. “It’s not the same.” The DVD start menu comes to life on Aziraphale’s ancient television, summoned by pure expectation. Crowley’s frankly shocked it even plays in color.

“Crowley, I’m sure I can scrounge up some information. But can’t you use the internet? There’s this remarkable thing called a search engine, nowadays-"

"Angel, you're the only one who could say something like that without a hint of sarcasm."

"-Or maybe ask Adam? He would probably know how to take care of one.”

“ _Or_ we could just give Adam the tortoise.”

“Slow down, dear, and think about it. Basil gave Timothy to you for a reason, so keep him. It’s the least you could do."

"After all those tickets to shows I sent him? Much Ado, Wicked, The Importance of Being Earnest. This is how he repays me?"

"You _did_ ditch him at the Palladium.”

“Only because you did,” Crowley huffs, sinking into his spot on the couch. Aziraphale has already camped out on the other end with his glass of wine.

“We’ve discussed how I feel about this musical.”

“At length. Look. I know it’s long, I know you have complex reactions to the characters, but,” Crowley takes a gulp of wine before continuing, “You’ve just got to. Well. Climb this mountain once, and then if you hate it we never have to watch it again. But you owe it to Basil. No distractions, no escapes, no giving me the slip.”

“Oh, I suppose you’re right. Yes. Fine. But at least keep the tortoise for a little while, give him time to grow on you."

"Mph."

"All right, let’s begin then.” Aziraphale makes to play the video.

“Actually. Before we start,” Crowley puts up a hand, “I need to tell you that I don’t like this musical, and I never did, and I’m only watching this with you to make sure you actually, finally, finish it. I’m telling you this now, because if I tell you at the end, you won’t believe me when I say I hate it.”

“Who says I believe you _now_?”

“Just get on with it, angel.”

* * *

At the end, they both cry, even if neither will admit it. 

The only thing Aziraphale says as the credits roll are “I know Gabriel and the others liked this, but perhaps they would feel differently, or at least more deeply, if they’d seen it to the end.”

Crowley only nods, and helps Aziraphale clean up. They decide not to use miracles on the dishes. Aziraphale washes their wine glasses, and Crowley dries. They talk about unrelated subjects. What to feed tortoises, and the merits of tiramisu, and whether they should get deck chairs for the cottage.

Crowley eventually goes home to his tortoise with a stack of reptile care books Aziraphale has lent him. After taking a long look into Timothy’s expectant eyes, he texts Maya, his housesitter, to ask if she’s willing to add tortoise care to her list while he is at the cottage this summer. Then, he sings Timothy a halfhearted lullaby, tells him not to get any ideas about getting soft, and goes to sleep.

Aziraphale stays up all night cleaning and humming to himself. Those songs are just too catchy. Just as a violet dawn peeks into the shop windows, he positions the vase of flowers by his register in the bookshop. He thinks he’d like to keep the memory on display. It makes him think of friendship, a mountain summited at last, an immortal tune. Carpeted theater lobbies, floating feathers, adrenaline, and the leather seats in the Bentley. The taste of chocolate and wine, crying good tears, imagining Crowley admonishing a tortoise.

It may go too far to list them as some of his favorite things, but the sentiment remains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to say hi on tumblr [@splitting-infinities](https://splitting-infinities.tumblr.com).
> 
> One last weird thing I might as well get off my chest here is that I spent many years in a touring theater group that often performed The Sound of Music songs and choreography. I know every song, every word, every harmony, every dance movement. I had a costume. This musical is like, ingrained in my soul. I clearly had a lot of things to work through regarding my own relationship to it in this fic, but hopefully you get a sense of the complicated love/evade messages this musical conjures for both me and Aziraphale. I rarely share anecdotes, but this fic has a personal touch for me, so there we are. As evidenced by your comments, it seems there are lots of us who have strong emotions when it comes to the musical. :)
> 
> I'll try to have more additions to the Cryptid Chronicles series up soon! Thanks!


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